


Anything You Put Your Mind To

by WithoutAQualmOfConscience



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff without Plot, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutAQualmOfConscience/pseuds/WithoutAQualmOfConscience
Summary: Kim Wexler decides she's going to have a really good day, regardless of the circumstances.
Relationships: Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman & Kim Wexler
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: Blue Christmeth 2019





	Anything You Put Your Mind To

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sylvestris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvestris/gifts).



It’s 5 AM when the sun crests South Sandia Peak and spills pale white light into the window of the bedroom where Kim Wexler wakes up and, for a moment, feels dread at the memory of last night’s minor blowup frustration at Jimmy McGill, before furiously deciding she’s going to have a good day. There’s no reason that she needs to let the comment “you’re smart, don’t worry” sink under her skin any further, she can have a good day. Just a really good.... whatever day it is. What day is it? Saturday, the calendar confirms. 

Saturday is maybe not ideal. If it was a workday, her phone would be sealed up in a little black box outside the HHM vaults, collecting Jimmy’s apologetic voicemails. She wouldn’t have to get the constant reminders that he fucked it up, said the wrong thing in the wrong moment. She wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that well, okay, maybe she  _ did _ blow it out of proportion just a little bit. It was a  _ compliment, what’s the big deal _ ? But even that thought makes her itch with anger. Okay, okay. Not the greatest start to a good day but — 

Kim Wexler gets done what she wants to get done. Up, out of bed, into business-casual. Clean jeans, a tidy blouse over a comfortable, solid t-shirt. Sensible shoes. A no-nonsense ponytail. When she checks her makeup in the mirror, which hangs over the back of the bathroom door in her off-white tiled studio apartment, she sees the determination that brought her here. A glance around the rest of the space reveals her half-made daybed, her desk with three coffee mugs, a bookshelf with four LSAT study guides, a GRE prep book, and a garbage can full of wadded up legal pad pages. Maybe Jimmy has a point, about how seriously she’s taking this. About how all-consuming the prep is becoming. And then again, maybe Jimmy doesn’t get it. 

Either way, she’s been up for half an hour and he’s getting in the way. The surest way to have a great day, she decides, is just to turn her phone off. There’s only a moment of hesitation as she does, which she chalks up to the fact that she’s locking up behind her as she does and not to the fact that there are two messages waiting to be heard. 

The sun is fully up by the time she reaches her favorite gas station on the way to HHM. Inside, the gentle hum of the fridge units is a familiar balm. Even knowing exactly what she wants (a Little Debbie snack cake, an apple, a large black coffee and a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds) she takes the time to appreciate the space. The year she worked at the Quick-n-Ready in Bird City was easily the most exhausting year of her life, though this one is giving it a run for the money, but it gave her an appreciation for the inner workings of a place that everyday people didn’t think about as having workings at all. And, she considers, picking up her breakfast, waking up at 4 AM every day for the first shift gave her life-prep for working in law in its own way. 

At the counter, the young man scanning her items makes tired small talk. “On your way to the petroglyphs this morning? Should be a nice hike.” 

Is that what people who aren’t up to their eyes in work do on their nice days? The briefest flight of fancy occurs. What would it be like to actually take a day to do something as frivolous as climb around on the rocks? Would she enjoy it? She’d have to change her shoes but then… She shakes her head. “No, going in to work.”

“Bummer.” The kid bags her haul, hands it to her. The smiling face on the bag is sun-faded. “Good luck.” 

Kim doesn’t tell him she doesn’t believe in luck, at least not on the personal level. Instead, she drives with her signature single focus to work. There is always work to be done, after all. And nothing feels as good as getting shit done. 

As a child, hardly taller than her father’s knee, she learned the crop cycles; the labor required to turn the ground over and over each early spring when the Nebraska air was still frozen in her lungs. It was unpleasant work no matter which way you cut it. There was no glamour or appeal, to Kim, to being a farmer. Instead, the trick was to remember the outcome. To hold, in crystalline perfection, the image of a field of crops rising taller than your head in the late summer sun, gold and ripe and worth $3.85 per bushel. If you remembered the outcome, you’d go back time and time again to check the work.  _ You’ll go back to till the land when you taste the fruit _ her grandfather would say. And Kim, now, thinks to herself  _ you’ll go back to the vaults to triple check the forms when someone will notice your hard work _ . 

By 2 PM, her eyes ache from the sustained blinding white of the bent-neck lamps on the vault tables. Two younger clerks have been keeping up a conversation just half a decibel too loud for the last half hour and don’t seem interested in stopping anytime soon. As a headache slowly creeps up from her neck to the sides of her head, Kim decides that this is as good a moment as any to determine the day’s success rate so far. As far as good days go, she  _ has _ gotten work done, gotten a treat breakfast, and seen the sun come up. But a flash of panic courses over her as the headache begins to throb dully in her left temple. Is her idea of good  _ actually  _ good? Should she take the checkout guy’s advice and go to the National Park that she’s only been to once in her whole three years in Albuquerque? Fuck. Okay, okay. What’s a compromise? Just getting outside, right? As if she needed any more encouragement, one of the junior clerks begins a story that starts with the words, “So you know that girl I’ve been fooling around with?” 

Three advil from the upstairs kitchen lower cabinet and a brisk walk later, Kim finds herself downtown at Tingley Beach. Groups of families with small children litter the banks of the lake, awaiting a fish to release. Joggers pull their dogs out of the way of cyclist packs on the bike paths that curve along the river’s edge. The Rio Grand Bosque is green with life. The air is warm and smells like sand, like pine. Pain fading, Kim sits on a bench and stretches her shoulders, letting the sun warm her face. There’s nowhere like New Mexico. 

Without thinking, she reaches for her phone. It’s still off. She holds it in her lap for a long time, debating. Is it against her resolution to have a good day if she calls Jimmy to apologize? The thought that it might actually make her day better makes her feel like she’s taken a shot of cinnamon whiskey — her stomach turns over once, twice, three times.  _ Oh, god _ . She looks at the couples around her, walking the length of the little lakes and laughing, and feels a fear that’s been present since she met him, since she slept with him for the first time.  _ I  _ like  _ him. _ And following the fear is the embarrassment, more than the sadness, about having fought him over what he must have been so certain was the right thing to say. 

Deep breath in, deep breath out. She can repair this. She can get it done, it’s what she does. Holding the little plastic button down for three seconds, she braces. The damage? Only two messages. That’s… Is it better or worse, that he gave up at 11 AM? She decides not to listen to them. Part of having a good day is having a conversation on your own terms. With the wind whispering through the bosque, the heat peeling away from her with her sweat, she makes the call. 

Jimmy answers immediately. She can imagine him in his tiny back room, pacing. “Kim! Hey! Listen, before anything else, I get it and I’m sorry. I mean it, I really—”

“Jimmy.” She stands when she speaks, grounds herself even when he can’t see it. “It’s… I forgive you. Do you want to do dinner tonight?”

“What?” There’s a split second pause as he takes it all in, “Oh! Sure. Yeah. Yeah, of course.” 

“Great. I’m about to go back to work so I’ll have my phone off but meet me at 6 at my place.” Set your own terms, get what you want. “See you then.”

“Sure! Yeah, okay. Oh! Hey, should I bring anything?” He laughs nervously, and she rolls her eyes but can’t help a smile. Like he doesn’t know she keeps both wine and condoms at her own house.

“No, just you.”

“You got it.” 

****

He’s waiting for her when she returns to her apartment. He’s holding a large paper bag, wearing a hesitant smile that becomes more relaxed as she makes it clear she’s not going to pick up an argument. “Thanks for coming over,” she fishes for her keys, “I decided I was going to have a good day and I wanted to see you, after all.”

“So you just woke up and decided you were gonna try to have a good day?” There’s confusion that seems exaggerated but that’s how all of Jimmy’s emotions seem. 

“Oh,” Kim raises one eyebrow, grinning. It’s a victory that she’s happy to share. “I didn’t  _ try _ . I  _ had _ a good day.”

“Well, hey, good for you.” She must be making some kind of face because he immediately begins his frantic-over-explanation song and dance. “No, really, I mean, the kind of mental fortitude required to just  _ have _ a good day. You know, I read an article a while ago about POWs in Vietnam and the ways they survived years and years of confinement, and there was —” He falls silent as she places her index finger very gently to his lips. 

“What’s in the bag?” 

“Veggie lo mein from Gold Star Kitchen. Also some chicken tamales from the church down the street. Just in case, you know, you weren’t feeling Chinese. I want you to have options.” He squirms around her into her apartment, long body like a sidewinder on a highway. “So I just, you know, I wanted you to know that I’m really taking it seriously, your studying. I get it, it wasn’t helpful to remind you that you’re smart so…” He’s fumbling with his pockets and then producing a series of folded up notes. “I asked Chuck what the trickiest questions he would ask if he was writing the bar exam would be. I don’t know if I wrote them all down right but I thought, if you wanted to study…” 

Kim watches him, takes in his earnest enthusiasm. Her chest feels tight around her heart, she’s torn between laughing and crying. He’s just a guy in the mailroom taking courses by correspondence, just the younger brother of one of her most important bosses. That’s what she’s told herself over and over, trying to crush out the crush. But she can’t even pretend to bother with trapping it down tonight. There’s only gratitude, the kind of overwhelming gladness that makes her ache. Someone who believes. She looks him in the eyes. “This is sweet, Jimmy, it really is.” 

He laughs, sizes her up. “But?”

“I don’t want to study tonight, actually.” She waits for a protest, a question of why he went to so much effort. Instead, he just nods, eyes wide in surprise, one eyebrow cocked in sly victory. “I want to see the petroglyphs.”

“Oh, that’s…” He looks at his watch, then at the window behind her as though searching for a more accurate read on the situation from the sky, “I think they’re closed by now? But hey, I know a really great overlook where we can see the rocks. I can swing by Chuck’s and get some binoculars?” 

“That sounds great.” She takes the bag of food from his hands, “But forget going by Chuck’s. Let’s just go. And let me know what I owe you for this.” 

“No, no, it’s my treat. You’re stressed, it’s…” His protest trails off under the force of her expectant gaze. “Okay. Seven bucks.” 

She produces the bills from her wallet and tucks them into his shirt pocket. “Okay. Let’s go.” 

He drives just over the speed limit in his battered car, heading west. The sun is a lens flare that burns everything in Kim’s vision out, save Jimmy. Jimmy, in over-sized sunglasses, thinning hair wild from the breeze of the rolled down windows, Jimmy, who cared enough to apologize and enough to mean it. Kim settles into the faded passenger seat with ease, lets herself enjoy the ride. When they’re parked at the massive sports complex on the edge of town, the one with the view of the south trail head at the park, Jimmy puts his hand on hers. She entwines their fingers and they sit, silent, for a long time watching the sun set. 

“Hey,” Jimmy says, finally, “I really just… I didn’t mean to make it like your bar prep wasn’t important. I meant, you know, when I said you shouldn’t worry, that I think you’ve got this because I know you. You’re just… The most determined person I know. I know you’ve got your mind set on it.” 

“Jimmy.” She squeezes his hand, then leans over and kisses his cheek. “Thank you. Okay? You don’t have to beat yourself up about it.” 

“Okay.” He kisses her lips. “If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure.” She lets him kiss her neck like they’re teenagers at a drive-in. She is sure. About everything. For the first time in a long time since starting bar prep, she believes in herself. She’s Kim Wexler. She can do anything she sets her mind to. Including, she concludes, unbuckling, including having just a really good day. 

**Author's Note:**

> So happy to have been assigned a gift to Sylvestris, who has been a longtime friend and eternal source of Breaking Bad inspiration! The timeline in this story is probably wack/non-canon compliant, and for that I am sorry.


End file.
